


Masters Of Disguise

by thatclutzsarahh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M, Het, Male Slash, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatclutzsarahh/pseuds/thatclutzsarahh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Moriarty knows exactly who Anthea is, and Anthea will do anything to keep Mycroft from finding out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Eep~ My first AO3 fic. Here have it. It's kind of dark. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos.

Anthea wasn’t her real name, even someone as daft as Mycroft knew that. But if there was one thing her dead beat family taught her, it was that all the best lies are crafted from the truth. Hannah Anthea Moriarty, born outside of Dublin to a mother who spent her life living a lie and a father who made one. She was the youngest of two, but not by much, only 18 months younger than her scrawny older brother James William Moriarty, a boy who was just as right in the head as she was herself. Genius kids, that’s what they were known as, the two kids at the end of the long rickety road in an old house with creaky floorboards and a lamp by the porch that doesn’t work. James and Hannah Moriarty were the strangest two kids that Ireland had ever seen. 

When they were young, James used to hold her under the water until her vision went blurry, and just when she thought she’d pass out he’d lift her from the bath and place her on the tile as she came back to life. She never spluttered of flopped around in the old bathroom on the floor, simply lay still until her breath returned to her and she could point her sharp brown eyes at her brother. Her lithe mouth would curl into a frown and she’d shiver, all cold and wet on the tiles as her brother would grin at her. She’d reach up with cat like reflexes and claw his throat, squeezing it into her palms, nails digging into his neck. Her nostrils would flare, just momentarily before they’d soothe back down as he went rigid. She could feel his veins underneath her grip, running quickly, as quick as it can, avoiding the restriction she offers. And then suddenly she lets go. Five year old Hannah grins deviously at her 6 year old brother before standing up and climbing back into the bathwater, still warm, and waving her brother off as he rubs his neck.

“Bruises?” he says as he stares in the mirror. Hannah grins at him with her eyes closed.

“Always.”

She comes up with the name Anthea when she misspells Athena, goddess of War when she was 11. She stared at the page with her beautiful handwriting, scrawled evenly across the page. Anthea, she liked the way it looked. She scribbled it again on the paper, then again and again. James, curious about her writing, glanced over her shoulder at her elegant script, the name Anthea written over and over again. He grinned at her and stroked her hair back, breathing over her shoulder and onto the paper.

“Pretty name isn’t it?” he muses in his high voice, his fingers coming to trace the letters. 

“I rather like it,” she says, “I think I’ll keep it.”

And she does just that. 

She uses the name first, when they’ve relocated to London, after their mother’s lie has run out of steam and their father’s life has too. A lonely widow, that’s what her mother calls herself as she does her hair and make up, blood red lipstick and dark shadowy eyes. Anthea sits on the bed of her mother’s room, cross legged and curious, curlers in her own hair. At 13 she’s the prettiest girl in her grade, with long curling dark locks and mysterious almond shaped eyes. She and her brother stick together like glue now, because he’s so scrawny and thin and hard to make friends with while she has the easy charm and pretty face. Her mother stands up and leaves the vanity mirror for the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her. James joins the bedroom party now and climbs up next to her on the bed.

“Call me Anthea now,” she demands, not turning to face him. James’ mouth curls into a smile.

“Call me Jim then,” he said, “I’ll be Jim and you be Anthea.”

Hannah turns her head to him and grins. “Nice to meet you Jim,” she says easily, charmingly. Jim frowns, and at that instant he’s tearing at her mouth. She doesn’t scream as he tries to slice her lips open further with his fingernails, simply closed her eyes as he tried to claw her eyes out.

“Don’t charm me,” he hissed at her, “I know the real you, you are not charming-”

Effortlessly, she rolled them and pinned his arms underneath him, a little bit of blood staining her otherwise perfect cheeks. Jim laughed heartily from underneath her, watching as the droplets hit is cheek as well.

“You love the charming me,” she taunted him, “You love the way I can manipulate you.” 

“Always,” he said with a grin. Anthea climbs off him, just in time to see her mother come back around.

“Hannah!” she shouted, “Don’t play with my lipstick!”

She ushers Anthea over to the mirror and wipes the blood away with a tissue. Anthea lets her believe that is exactly what it is, lipstick, because she know that’s not really what’s on her mouth at all. She likes the way it tastes in her mouth, the metal taste it leaves on her tongue. She turns to Jim when her mother is done and has retreated into her closet to find a slinky black dress to wear for her clients. Anthea’s not stupid, she knows that her mother lives the lie she creates, a woman with many personalities, many husbands, many toys she can play with since her father is gone now. Jim sees it too, but he stays quiet, doesn’t comment. Anthea stares at her pretty reflection and sees her mother’s features in her own, blood smeared face and dark eyes. Jim looks like father, and she mother.

“Out,” her mother says, pushing them both out, “Downstairs, go play.” Jim slides off the bed and sticks his hands in his pockets before slinking down the stares. Anthea follows him without a word.

The blood stays smear across her face.

 

At 18, Anthea learns to shoot her first weapon. Jim does the same. For Anthea this is an arrow, taught to her over the summer in a class she decided she wanted to take. “Guns are so ordinary” she told Jim as she took aim at a practice target one afternoon in the backyard of their country house. Another perfect bullseye, right in the middle of the tree. Jim smiled as she took up another arrow from her quiver and strung it out before letting it slide from the bow, cutting the air with ease and slamming in the tree, next to her last arrow. 

“I like precision,” she tells him when he asked why she chose an arrow of all weapons.

Jim likes explosions. he likes things over the top. That’s why he and his sister get along so well. She is over the top, a tall beautiful woman with a dangerous smile. Which is why Jim likes his Semtax explosives and little firework displays of fun. He likes how it makes such beautiful displays of fire. Sometimes he looks at Anthea and wonders how she would look in the middle of all the flames, her skin becoming blackened by the heat and her eyes burning into nothing, her whole being silent, burning silently. Like an angel of fire. His angel of fire. 

“You’d look beautiful on fire,” he tells her, taking her by surprise and running his fingers over her shoulders. She smiles coolly and lets fly the arrow, her concentration not wavering.

“I am beautiful,” she says without emotion, picking up the last arrow in the quiver.

“An angel of fire,” he whispered into her ear, tickling it with the heat, “My angel of fire.”

Anthea tucked her head to the side, as if considering it. She grinned and let fly the arrow. “I like the sound of that,” she murmured to him, “Say it again.”

His teeth nipped at her ear as he whispered it again to her. “My angel of fire, a flame and burning so beautifully.” 

She shuddered happily under his touch and went to the tree to retrieve her arrows from the wood. Jim watched her go. She pulled the arrows from the wood and turned to him.

They had always been the odd ones, the strange siblings-not right in the head as their grandmother said to their mother. Jim and Anthea had been attached by the hip for their entire lives, together and never apart. In High School they were mistaken as a couple because she enrolled under the name of Anthea Hannan, and he Jim Moriarty. They had never had anyone but themselves in their lives before, and while it did not bother the two of them-it worked to their advantage occasionally-their own family thought it creepy and odd. 

It wasn’t so odd, that at age 23, while sound asleep in the middle of the night, Jim wanders into their shared flat in London. She’s at uni, doing uni things and he’s setting the world a blaze with his Hannah bombs, gleefully named after his little angel of fire. He’s made quite a name for himself, Moriarty, the most dangerous man the world’s ever seen, and she’s just a poli sci major with dreams of working right under the nose of the government. Well, that’s what she claims. James wants her by his side once his empire is fully established. It’d be nice to see her there, standing next to him and looking out at where his long fingers reach. To see her in awe.

It’s cold in her place when he sneaks in, and instantly he finds himself in the shower, heating his icy skin and relaxing his sore muscles. He stares at the simple white tiles and smiles as he thinks of all the times he’s tried to drown Anthea in water just like this. It’d been a while since he’d tried, he was long over do to do it again. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand under the hot water. He missed the flat. Being away was nice, setting the world on flame was delightful but he liked the way the water felt on his neck. He stood under the heat of a the water for a few more moment before climbing out and dressing, climbing silently into the over sized bed that she slept in.

When she woke, she knew he was there. Groggily, she opened her eyes to find her brother snuggling the pillow behind her, his eyes wide open and staring at the back of her head. He blinked, the pupils in his eyes completely dilated, completely black. Anthea flipped over to stare at him, looking at the bags under his eyes. Carefully she traced the dark patterns with her warm fingertip. 

“What time did you get here?”

“Four in the morning. I took a shower.”

“It’s 8 now, you should be sleeping,” she said, staring at him. His long arm reached out and grabbed her forcefully, dragging her still sleep heavy body closer to him. Her back screamed in protest, but fighting him would be useless. So she looked at him as he brought her closer, inhaling her scent as he lay there, the pillow smashed between them. 

“I missed you,” he stated coldly, just like he always did. She shrugged.

“It’s obvious.” She rolled her eyes. “Guess what?”

“I don’t like games.”

“Ones you don’t win,” she responded. He grinned wryly at her, his eyes cool. Anthea looked back at him without an expression. “I’ve got an internship.”  
Jim looked amused. “Oh? Where?”

“Working for a man called Mycroft Holmes.”


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own only the typos.

Mycroft Holmes was a wiry young man with the face of an older man. He was lean and tall and powerful in his stance, and to anyone but Anthea he was intimidating. The first time they met, he stared at her like she was some kind of science project, research of some kind. She hadn’t wiggled under the weight of his gaze and simply eyed him back, gazing at him without so much as a blink of discomfort. She took his vision full on without so much as a squirm or squint. Two others had entered the room and left as they stared each other down from their seats.

Mycroft’s intelligence was written clearly across his sharp features, ripened by the long hours of study and work. Anthea’s intelligence was hidden behind her beautiful face, her only fault (if you could call it a fault) but she’s right along with as he catalogs her from the tip of her black, sensible yet expensive pumps to the top of her perfect hair, shiny and healthy. And while Anthea is of exceptional beauty, Mycroft is of the subtler kind, one of refinement of many generations of grooming, plucking and patience. Anthea is a wild beauty, soft and dangerous all at the same time, hidden neatly behind a mask of higher class, a refinement she’d obviously taught herself. And it was then, under the weight of Mycroft’s judgement that he hired her for the internship.

“Congratulations, Miss Hannan,” he said with an easy drawl “You’re hired. You start now.”

_____________________________________

Jim wasn’t in the flat when she got home from work, which was rather disappointing because she wanted to tell him about her work. Finding the rather lavish place vacant, Anthea decided that a shower was in order and trudged off to the bathroom. She’d just barely stepped into the hot spray when the thunderous clash of the front door sounded throughout the place, followed by a few other heavy thuds before going quiet. Anthea, unsure of what was happening, whether it was a robbery or Jim, stepped out of the shower, slick, naked and still dripping water and opened the bathroom door. If it were a robber, they’d be caught off guard by a naked, wet, woman. She could take them down then. 

There’s Jim in the center of the room on the ground, his clothes a rumpled mess and the lavish off white carpet suddenly standing itself red and brown. He looks like death incarnate with all his blackened skin and tattered fabrics lying across the floor and groaning. It didn’t sound like a painful groan as he inched his way across the priceless carpet, but rather a mixture of laughter and glee and it makes Anthea’s insides warm up and causes her face to smile. It’s then she realizes she’s not alone with Jim, but there’s a man standing by the door covered in blood. She realizes he’s the one who’s dumped him here on the carpet, and before she can say whether to come in or leave, he turns and thuds back down the stairs.

Anthea swings the door shut and lands next to Jim on the carpet, a sweet grin spreading across her face. He lifts his to look at her, just a little bit, before bursting out laughing and pressing his nose back to the carpet. Anthea’s not slightly worried because he’s laughing, and she can hear the water in her shower still running steaming up the bathroom.

“Your blood?” She asks, looking at the puddle she’s sharing with her older brother. He laughs against into the carpet before flipping over, showing her the poorly stitched up gape in his stomach. She’s not a doctor so she’s not about to touch it. Instead, she smiles at it and inspects the ragged stitches-most of the wound has scabbed up, puckered red and black and crispy but a corner of it is weepy and Anthea has a strange urge to lick the slow ooze from the edge.

Jim smiles at her as she inspects the blood, “Not all of it,” he says casually as he tries to push himself up, “Got a bit carried away with a bombing.”

“Fun,” Anthea says, rolling over in the puddle to stand up. Jim’s eyes roam over her appearance, what droplets of water that had clung to her body were now stained red, and her dark hair was wet and matted with the stench of metal wafting around.

“Guest over?” Jim asks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, even though inside he was burning. He hated to share his sister with any other male, or female should she choose. Ever since he was little, he was always around to make sure that her friends never got to close. Of course she’d had dates and what not with men, but he’d find some way to subtly sabotage them and he’d have her back to himself again. She’d know it was him, and on more than one occasion he’d accidentally fallen down the stairs and broken a rib or woken up in the middle of the night with his eyebrows sewn together. She was merciless in her wrath, wild when he was around, and he liked her this way. He wanted to keep her this way-his pet forever.

“Shower,” she said, before sauntering off to the bathroom. The water had probably run cold by now, but she didn’t mind, climbing in anyway. Jim joined her shortly after.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mycroft’s different then anything she’s ever seen before. He’s a man that carries his lean self tall and regal, full of importance that he has. His schedule is not hard to keep track of and within the first few days she’s got it down to even the minutes he has for a bathroom break. She’s never seen someone more organized in her entire life. And where he went she went, underneath his constant gaze, almost as if he were trying to break her, to see if she’s actually the same person on the inside as she was on the outside. 

Anthea was fascinated by him, by the way he worked. He was a cold, iced man with no expression on his face. He showed little interest in her as a woman, and that she appreciated greatly, and he kept to himself most of the time. Her jobs was meaningful and not meaningless, working as a scheduler and the occasional second wheel into meetings. But she knew there was something else, something darker to him than he let on from his sunny political mask. She could tell by his schedule, meetings were code-named and guest lists were blank. The hours she allowed him for “personal reasons” were not for a family or a wife or a girlfriend but for something else rather, something darker.

And he exposed it to her one day, one sunny sunny day as she sat in her grand desk, swallowed whole by the leather chair and typing away on her blackberry. The doors to his office are shut and suddenly they swing wide open, and he steps out, umbrella in one hand and phone in the other. He’s tucking the phone away into his suit jacket and doesn’t even look at her as he called out for her to follow.

“Anthea, come with me,” he beckons and she all but scrambles from her desk, up and out of her seat following behind him on her tall platform shoes. A car pulls up outside, sleek and black and wonderful and the door is opened by the driver for her to climb in. He follows closely behind her and she sits completely still next to him as the door closes and the driver walks back to the front seat. She’s not going to ask where they’re going because she’ll know in time.

“It’s time to see what else you’ll be doing,” he says as the car pulls away. A large screen unfolds from the roof and Anthea wants to giggle because she feels like she’s in a James Bond movie. Instead though she remains still as the screen flips on and a man she’s never seen before pops up onto the screen.

“Andrews,” Mr. Holmes says “This is my assistant, Anthea.” 

The man on the screen eyes her as she remains still, unafraid and unassuming of the man on the screen. He’s a man of military or of secret ops, with a short cut of hair and a square jaw. His small beady eyes exam her and she fights the thought back of how good his eyes would look on her mantle piece next to Jim’s box of ashes of something. The man sits back and nods.

“I like her better,” he gives his opinion and then turns to Mycroft. “What is her clearance status?”

“MI6,” Mycroft says, and the pieces fall into place. She’s fallen into that darker realm, the one she’s guessed at and prodded around. She knew from a glance he wasn’t just a politician, from his stance to his posture, she knew there was something darker to him and strangely enough, it was rather a turn on to know the man was many layers of different. Because she too, was many layers of different-the deepest one, innocence. 

She watches the conversation take place, listens to every word and absorbs it all into her spongey brain. He’s not just another politician, he’s the british government in disguise, a man who, if he so wanted to, could bring down the nation (possibly the world) with a flick of his hand. It was an immense power he held and she was his second in command. 

“Your pay will increase significantly now,” he says, after the screen’s been tucked up and away, “And you will be under constant surveillance.”

Anthea twitches at this but nods her head. “I am able to take care of myself, sir,” she says calmly. Mycroft nods his head.

“That I can see,” he remarks dryly, turning his head to his fingers, “You’ll work long hours on jobs you can’t talk about and will spend many nights on your own. You’ll also be enrolled in MI6 training, effective immediately, which will take place during your lunch hours. It will be long and tedious work, but you will be set for life within the first few months of work. Do you still want the job?”

Mycroft turned his face to meet her gaze. Anthea’s eyes were still cool and unreadable, a shade of brown unlike anything he’d ever seen before. They were so innocent he almost felt bad for exposing her to the horrors of the world. But he could also tell from her face she’d seen many a things and she could handle it. He was not making a mistake in picking her.

“Yes sir,” she answers simply, never breaking eye contact with the fascinating man. He nods his head and turns away form her face, eyes glancing back out the window. He hums contently in agreement, watching the city pass by. Hours have gone by in the car and Anthea knows she’s going home by way of his ride. She quickly scans her phone and finds it’s been flooded with information, meetings and schedules and names with no filters and she realizes that yes, she could get use to this life. Secret agent. She likes the wound of that. Most powerful woman in Britain. Has a nice ring to it. 

The car stops by her flat and she climbs out. Just as she shuts the door Mycroft crawls over and says to her, “No more taxi or tube. This care will pick you up every morning at 6, then will go to retrieve me so we can be at the office between 8:30 and 9. See you tomorrow, Anthea.”

“Good night Mr. Holmes,” she says and shuts the door, watching the car drive off.

Yes she could most definitely get use to this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sibling incest. But if you haven't gotten that by now, then you're lost. :]

It had always been known that growing up they were the genius kids. It’d never been any secret that the two of them were beyond bright. Jim had always been the type to show off his intelligence, while Anthea had a class about her to hide it away, to reserve it and corner someone with it, outsmart them when they least expected it. Jim had the irrational urge to get frustrated at the slightest thing and simply spoil his fun all together rather soon. He’d get upset playing tag and shove a kid down, breaking his arm or something, before storming off in a fit and leaving the game completely. Anthea was a little more patient with her playthings than Jim, and while sometimes it paid off and sometimes it didn’t (many seemed to scurry away) she always had the patience to deal with either. 

But tonight, her patience with him had gone thin. Anthea’s job had gotten the best of her that day, and after being knocked on her ass a few dozen times by her training agent, her mood had gone from pleasantly empty to downright sour. And the last time she’d been sour had been a disaster for a dear pet rabbit, that suffered the wrath of her sourness. Instead, the object was her blackberry, thrown across the car as it pulled up to drop her off.

Jim Moriarty sits still in a chair by the window when she opens the door, in only his boxer shorts. He’d been playing with himself clearly, because he was just hanging out of his shorts, sitting in the window, just staring into space. Anthea, not in the mood for really anything, slams the door shut behind her and heads into the kitchen, throwing down her purse and blackberry by the telephone and ripping open the cabinet, her mind set on a bowl of soup for dinner. 

“The world is so dull,” Jim sings out in an octave that Anthea knows well. He’s bored, obviously, and he hasn’t been out all day. Anthea ignores him and goes about getting soup.

“I mean look at the people, all of them,” he continues “Just wondering around. No purpose. No life! In one quick second I could make things so exciting for them, just a tiny bit of explosive, and BOOM! What a colorful array of people down below!”

“Uneventful day, was it now?” Anthea asks, bending down into the fridge to pull out some milk. She doesn’t really care what he’s up to, because she’s so wrapped up in her own work.

“Yes,” Jim sighs, standing in the door frame, he hasn’t even bothered to stuff himself back into his pants, half-hard just standing in the doorway. Anthea turns away from him.

“Put yourself away,” she says without any tone in her voice. Jim tsks behind her.

“Becoming modest, are we?” he mocks, strolling up right behind her so she can feel him, “Come now, you’ve never been bashful before.”

Anthea, already annoyed from the day’s events turns to her brother and grabs him firmly, causing him to gasp and smile at her before she tucks him away in his boxers and turns back to making soup.

“Sour puss,” he murmurs hatefully to her back. Anthea has nothing to say to him, just settles back into boiling her soup on the stove. Jim sinks into the chair at the kitchen table, rubbing his now hard-on, scowling. 

“Don’t you have some work to be doing?” Anthea asks, sitting down across from him. Jim rolls his eyes. Her concern was cute.

“Your concern is cute.”

“Mistaking my question for concern,” she says mockingly, “You’re getting sloppy, James.”

In a flash he’s jumped across the table and has his hands wrapped around her neck, smashing her underneath him with his fingers pressing gleefully into her neck. “Don’t call me THAT!” he roars, and in a second she’s flipped him over, grabbed the spoon off the table and has it pressed to his throat. He chuckles darkly.

“Oh,” he says, rolling around underneath “Good! How’s that job treating you Hannah?”

She presses it closer to his throat, “It’s Anthea.”

“Has the new boss ruined you yet or are you still mine?” He laughs at her, a smile stretched wide across his face. Anthea doesn’t respond, pressing the spoon closer to close off his throat, Anthea presses harder and harder until she’s knocked out her brother. She leaves him laying on the floor, evidence of her bad day left to sleep.

______________________________________________

Anthea knows he’s watching today. She can feel his eyes on her as she dumps over another agent in the training room. He’s not watched her before in training, and so as she’s flipping over a training agent, she catches him watching from the corner of her eye, his hands folded over his knee-cap as his eyes watched her every movement. Stony and cold, that’s what he looked like, just sitting there with his icy blue eyes gliding over her as she moved. If she were an average woman, she’d think he were checking her out, but he was watching for mistakes, if he’d chosen wrong, if he’d made a mistake. But Anthea would be the best trained killer the world would ever see, she’d be the deadliest woman in the world. 

Mycroft Holmes watched her all lunch long. She was swift in her movements, stiff yet graceful, almost as if she’d done this before. The longer the training session went on, the more she became graceful, elegant even with her long strokes of her leg as she kicked an agent in the chest. Her body moved like water, trained and angled to hit the target perfectly. The more he watched, the clearer it became that she’d been trained before, she knew what she was doing.  
He knew as much as he could gather about Anthea Hannan, which wasn’t much given her name was a fake. He knew she’d come from Ireland, Dublin somewhere and that she’d gone to uni and now worked here. She had no criminal record, no other alias’s, nothing that had come up on his extensive search of her life. Yet still, she was the one woman to evade all his security defenses, the most secretive woman, he called her, because he knew nothing of her. So he stuck around, and after the training session was over, she approached him, standing there in her training shirt and pants, wondering why he was sitting there.

“You’ve been trained before,” he observes, watching her. Anthea nods.

“Older brothers,” she says, “4 of them. You need to be able to handle yourself.”

Mycroft nods and stares into her eyes, trying to detect a lie in her stare. But she remains rock solid in her gaze, just like he is, secrets hidden behind great big eyes, layered away. She turns away from him and reaches for her bag, grabbing a bottle of water and drinking it down. Mycroft’s gaze never left her. She was different. Strange. So much like him it almost scared him. 

“I’ll see you in my office in 10 minutes,” he said, standing up and leaving her in the room by herself, his face neutral, blank. Anthea nods to him before picking up her things and leaving to change.

It was the most he’d spoken to her since she first started working for him.

______________________________________________________________________________

She went home to a....nothing. 

As she left for the night and the car pulls to her place she notices something rather odd. There is nothing there. There is a gaping hole in the building where her flat is supposed to be, flames bursting from the hole and debris falling into the street. She climbs from the car carefully, hearing the sirens in the distance. She’s not sure what’s happened, but she can guess. It’s a “gas leak”- that’s what the official records will say, but she knows otherwise. There’s a note taped to the door of the building (or really what’s left of the door) and she reaches for it. The handwriting she knows instantly, her name scrawled across the front with a small heart at the end, a mocking heart and as she unfruls she’s knows, knows it was Jim.

_Oops. Left the gas on! Silly me. 1313 Kellington. That’s our new address. Kettle’s on._

Anthea curls the note up and stuffs it inside her suit jacket. She knew there would be a cost to her behavior earlier, she just didn’t realize her flat would fall victim to it. Her brother’s fits of jealousy never bother her, and she was sure the flat he’d taken up was just as lavish as this one. Minus the blood stains she thought darkly. He’d always had such a flair for dramatics, and while Anthea was the least dramatic person in the world, his drama was almost over the top. Sighing heavily, she decides it better to leave before the police show, and so she climbs back into the car, types a reminder to herself to tell Mycroft she’s moved before tapping on the glass between the driver and her.

“1313 Kellington please,” she says, settling back into the leather seats and sighed heavily, pulling away from the wreckage of her last home. 

Her brother was such a drama queen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: More sibling incest. I feel like i should feel wrong for it but I don't.

Her brother’s taste in decor was not far from her own. He held back in no places, the whole thing being extravagant from the door hinges to the bathroom tiles, he’d left no stone unturn in his decorating, the carpets lavish and expensive, the wall moulding plated gold and the furnishings even antique and old. The flat is nothing short of designer, with plush antique couches, a grand fireplace, chandeliers and lush artwork. It’s a collector’s dream, an antiquity specialists heaven, and Anthea is to call it home. And while it’s cozy and large, she’s found it to lack a certain charm, a woman’s touch per se, a touch she’s never had in her life. 

“Sister dear!” he greets her at the door, sliding into few in socks, boxers and a white shirt. His pupils are completely dilated, and he stares at her with a sweetly sick grin. There is a dangerous glint in his eyes, a glint that he’s found a prey to catch and he’s enjoying his chase. Anthea grins darkly back at him.

“What game are you at?” she asks, head tilting from one side to the next. She sets her purse down near the table and looks around. Which way to the bedroom?

“You’ve got debris in your hair,” he says, his tongue darting out to lick his lip, “Beautiful,” he murmurs before reaching for it. Anthea stands there and lets him remove the pieces from her hair. His was ruffled looking, a look that only she’s seen, and as he removes the plaster and bits of ash from her hair, she sees the small human parts of him. He’s brilliant, so very brilliant and Anthea admires the intelligence in his face. Slowly, she brings a hand up to stroke the side of his face, thumb brushing over his thin lips, thin dangerous lips where intelligence spills from effortlessly. Her own lips parted, her eyelids fell, shading her own dilating eyes carefully. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a little nudge reminded her that it was her brother her lips were currently attached to, but it was just a nudge, and not enough to make her stop. It was different though, this time, because she’s never had that nudge before, a nudge like a moral compass, pointing her away from what she’s doing. She almost stops him as he pushes her up against a hallway wall and searches hungrily for the zipper to her dress, but she doesn’t, and instead allows him to continue, enjoying herself as well. 

“Wait until you see the bedroom,” he murmurs near her ear, and she stops thinking completely, letting herself fall into the grasp of her older brother as he practically shoves her to the bedroom. She smiles against his lips and laughs as he finishes pulling her dress off her. She bends to remove her shoes but he stops her with a hand under her chin, turning her chin up to face him.

“Leave them,” he says, “Let’s play.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Her work is as normal as normal could be for her. Small secretary duties arise occasionally, meetings and schedules and lunches and dinners, entertaining guests from countries she’s never heard of and scheduling flights to places that she’d never thought she’d visit. In the afternoon during lunch she’d work her hard in her training and Mycroft would join her, watching her like she were a prize fighter, training her, conditioning her, and yet dissecting her. She watches him at the same time, studying him from a distance. He’s cold and impersonal from a distance, a professional man behind his three piece armour and tall striking appearance. She spends almost 14 hours with the man, confined near him, in the car next to him, and yet she knows nothing of him. He doesn’t speak, except professionally, and never asks her questions. She enjoys this interaction with him, two separate people with different lives just working in one space. It was nice.

And yet she craved more. 

It’s the middle of the night when her phone rings. It’s a soft ring, low and yet she hears it and rolls over, untangling her limbs from Jim’s as she reaches for it. It’s almost 1 in the morning and the number is his, so she scrambled to answer it, sitting up and yanking herself from the bed and answering the phone.

“I’m outside,” he says into the phone.

“Yes sir,” she answers, sliding on her panties and then a skirt before putting her suit jacket top on. She fixes her hair quickly, luckily the curls were still in place, fixes her make up and grabs her heavy coat, throwing it over her shoulders. It vaguely crosses her mind that she hadn’t told him where she’d moved to but as she steps out into the street and locks the flat behind her, she knows he’d find out-the driver must have told him.

“Swanky,” he says when she settles into the car next to him, “Even for your pay.” 

Anthea nods. “Yes,” she agrees “My last flat, there was a gas leak. One of my brothers bought this one. I live with him.”

Mycroft nods and for a moment Anthea wonders if he knows that her last flat’s explosion wasn’t an accident or not, but he doesn’t hint at it, instead just keeps to himself staring out the window. Anthea attempts to wake herself up slowly, staring at her phone to scan the emails, anything to give away where they midnight journey was taking them. No such luck though and so she was forced to ask.

“Sir,” she says calmly, “Where are we going?” 

“To pick up my brother,” he says calmly “He’s gotten himself rather badly injured.” 

Anthea, surprised he’d shared such an intimate detail with her, settles back in the car with a content little posture before looking out the window herself. The silence is comfortable and welcoming, she’s shared an intimate detail with him and he with her. As the car drives on, the silence is no longer comfortable and Anthea turns her head to look at her boss. He seems tired, worn, like he didn’t sleep at all since she’d dropped him off at home earlier. 

“You haven’t slept,” she says, observing his tired eyes and worn face. Even his suit was wrinkled on the edge. He looked over at her and she held his gaze, not wavering in her eyes.

“Correct,” he answers. He’s stiff, rigid, and she doesn’t stop her staring, she won’t stop her staring, just keeps looking at him. “I worry about him, my brother,” he continues, “Constantly.”

Anthea nods her understanding. “How many years younger is he?”

Mycroft turns and tilts his head at her, almost as if he were surprised. His lips are drawn thin, calculating, how could she possibly know? He blinks slowly, twice and then speaks.

“Seven years,” he says, “About three years older than yourself.”

“I never told you my age.”

“I never told you he was younger.” 

Anthea smirked at him and raised an eyebrow, as if to say ‘well played.’ He returned her smirk with his own before breaking into a small smile. She grinned back and then turned her head back to the window. They were out of the city now, and towards the water. She hadn’t been out of the city since she was young, and she enjoyed seeing the countryside, seeing the stars. She hadn’t even noticed her face had been pressed against the glass until the car stopped and she bumped her nose and let out a light chuckle. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve really seen the stars,” she says, and she could hear his low laughter even as he sat across from her in the dark. 

“Be a dear and fetch him, please Anthea,” Mycroft says. Anthea fixes her skirt and climbs from the car, the air much colder here than the city. Wrapping the coat around she walks toward the barn, past the old cars, the new cars and the groups of people. There were low whistles and cat calls as she made her way into the place. 

She realized she didn’t know what he looked like, but she was sure she’d figure it out. The barn was full of people, men, sweaty, sweaty men, and a few women, all eyeing her in her $500 pound suit set and equally as expensive jacket. The lights of the barn shine bright, and as Anthea weaves her way towards the center of the crowds, she notices it’s a fighting ring, and that the tall, slender man with thick curls and sharp eyes currently being dragged from the circle is Mr. Holmes brother. She moves, following the men hauling out the limp body until they toss him out the door. Anthea waits until it closes before she follows the body and steps out into the back barnyard.

 

She comes out to see him struggling to stand. His face is swollen and bleeding from multiple places and he’s breathing heavily. He staggers just a bit and clutches his chest. A few broken ribs, she guesses, and from the shallow breath, maybe a punctured lung.

“Mr. Holmes,” she says, and he looks up at her. Instantly, she knows it’s Mycroft’s brother by his sharp eyes and observing gaze, the blue-green eyes studying. She’s used to his gaze, Mycroft’s, and so she stands just like she would under that one, standing in front of the younger brother.

“Mycroft’s here,” he says with a smirk, and his voice is like baritone honey, so sweet and low and delicious. Almost chocolate, melted chocolate, just liquid and so delicious. His eyes study her again, “You must be his new assistant.”

“Please, Mr. Holmes, if you would be so kind as to come with me,” she says stepping towards him. She’d offer him her help, but he’d find it insulting (like Mycroft would). He gave her a lopsided grin and staggers with her towards the waiting car. He’s slow and she follows behind him with ease, making sure no one comes for him or he doesn’t bolt. She’d chase him down if he did so, but she’d rather not. Enduring a few more cat calls and rude insults, they make it to the sleek car and he shoves inside, just as she goes around the other side and climbs in.

“What are you doing here Mycroft?” he sneers as the car drives off. Anthea settles in next to Mycroft, opposite the younger Holmes brother, close enough to feel the heat that Mycroft gives off and the feel of his expensive pants. Mycroft fiddles with his fingers on his hand nearest her and she does her best to avoid the touch. She’s never felt the touch of another man other than her brother and the chills she’s getting now are like nothing she’s ever known before.

“Concern dear brother,” he says, “A worried friend called.”

“You were spying.”  
“I was concerned.”

“I can handle myself Mycroft,” he says, stabbing each word with a venomous punctuation. Mycroft’s mouth twists and his fingers tap over his thigh, nearly brushing hers. 

“Clearly not, Sherlock,” Mycroft answers, “Look at yourself, you’re falling apart, getting sloppy. You know what happened last time.”

“It’s not going to happen,” he sneers back, “Now take me back to my flat.”

“Doubtful,” Mycroft frowns, “We are going back to my home. You’ll be taken care of there.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says eyebrows shooting up into his hair, “And her? She stays with you as well? In your bed perhaps?”

“Look for yourself Sherlock, it’s not like you to make wrong assumptions.”

Anthea stares at Sherlock without a blink, eyes cool and watching. She observes him as he observes her. His eyes rake over her expensive clothes, thrown on quickly, her hair, still curled perfectly and make up smudge-less. Her posture was refined, delicate yet dangerous, a woman clearly trained and refined in the art of assassination and deception, deceitful yet innocent. A mind not yet touched by the fingers of Mycroft.

“Satisfied?” Anthea asks, looking at Sherlock without movement. Grumpily, he turns his head from her gaze and stares out the window. He’s put off by her and Mycroft can’t help the mental smile he’s got. He’s picked a good one, obviously.

Anthea even fools the great Sherlock Holmes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally some Mythea. Good old fashioned Mythea.

Jim was furious. He was raging mad, rightfully so, in his mind because Anthea had not come home that night. He’d watched her leave in the middle of the night from the window, watched her climb into that sleek black governmental car and drive off, not to return at all during the night. He’d stayed up too, waiting, patiently, angrily for her to return to him, and when she hadn’t he fumed, fumed about the place, overturning objects and items and things that were in his path. By the time the morning light had infiltrated the room he’d destroyed even the glass chandelier, gold-leaf moulding coming with it. He was so angry with her. He was angry with him as well, chasing away his sister, his sister in the middle of the night. She’d assured him nothing was going on between them. Jim had to know, he had to be certain. 

To do that, Mycroft Holmes must die.

Jim Moriarty decides in that moment what he’s going to do. Slinking back to the bedroom he rummages around for his mobile and finds it in the pants he’d thrown across the floor and yanks it out, angrily typing on the keyboard to get it to turn on. When it doesn’t he launches it across the bedroom and it shatters against the wall, chipping the red paint and sending the six pieces of blackberry flying. With a growl he yanks open the closet, opening the double doors wide. To his right were her clothes, lined neat and professional and so hateful and Jim turns his head to his wardrobe, finding his favorite suit. Putting it on, he smiles gleefully into the mirror, his face glowering darkly. 

Jim knows a lot about many things. His brilliance was blinding, and there were more than just a few occasions where his brilliance put his teachers to shame and he’d be sent to the office for “belligerent” behavior. He skipped uni altogether on the basis of being bored, opting instead to begin an empire underground full of criminals and crimes that he found glee in doing. He’d built himself a world of dark characters, ones that the world turns away. Mutated monsters that people turned away from, faces that basked in the midnight black and thrived off blood. And Jim would rule them all, one day he’ll have every man, woman and child that fed off the underside of the world would be his and his alone, all welcoming him yet never seeing him.

He works alone and in the darkness always, never seen by anyone other than his sister and his closest informant, an ex-colonel, releases dishonorably from military duty. An excellent sniper and a dear friend. He’d seen Jim at his very worse, dropped him at the last flat when he’d gone a little too nuts with his bombing. But he was far past nuts right now, he was downright insane, knowing that his sister, his plaything was running off with a man who ruled the world, secretly ruled the world behind the faces of true government officials, paid more money than the Queen of England ever had, the most powerful man in the world....for now. 

And Moriarty could not wait to watch him burn.

___________________________________________________________________________

Anthea had strict instructions that day to pick up the Ambassador to China and come directly back to the safe house near the office, a large “abandoned” warehouse which doubled for a conference room with state of the art technology. She parted with Mr. Holmes early and had been assured he would make it safely to the meeting via helicopter. He assured her that she too, would be watched by him closely. They’d become each others protection over the few months they’d been working together. He’d seen so much for such a young man and she’d seen nothing at all. They were the perfect working partners, and she was just beginning to enjoy it.

But her brother couldn’t have that.

So when she realized she wasn’t going to the airport, she knew somewhere, something had gone awfully wrong. When the car made a left and took off quickly, Anthea grabbed onto the side handle to balance herself. Quickly she leaned forward to the driver and pounded against it, seeing the give. The driver had tinted it, and she could no longer see him clear enough to get a good look. Anthea tried her phone, trying to signal it but found the signal jammed, and she angrily threw it away from her. She looked around the car, looking for something she could use to escape. She yanked on the door, it was child-locked. She kicked herself mentally, this would be a set back for Mycroft, she thought to herself as she tried to find a way out, she’d get fired for sure. She was supposed to check for these kinds of things. 

Outside, she could see the scenery changing, she was somewhere outside of London, heading east toward the ocean.The city became urban, that became towns, towns became countryside and that became just country. Anthea tried again on her mobile, but the signal still was jammed and, frustrated, she pounded against the glass again.

“Funny,” she said coolly, “You win Jim, stop it now.”

The only response was a purple gas that began to fill her side of the car. She coughed for a few moment before holding her breath, trying to get the last bits of oxygen she could. But she could only hold it in for so long because she exhaled and then inhaled again, but it was too late the gas had begun to fill her senses and, before she could stop it, she began to lose consciousness. The last thought she had coherently was that Mycroft would certainly fire her when she awoke.

She wakes to find herself in a large, damp warehouse, dimly lit and reeking of the ocean. She sniffed the air and it smelled faintly of chemicals and plastic explosives and sea water, along with hint of metallics, probably her blood. Her brother wasn’t known for being non too gentle, and as she pulled against the binds that tied her, she realized that he was behind the handiwork. A door in the far corner open, and she laughed as the footsteps grew closer to the light.

“Elaborate Jim,” she says, “Really elaborate. What’d I do this time? Did I not let you finish the other night? Though that was your fault, you did get rather excited-who are you?”

The man she sees in the light does not look like her brother at all. Tanned and tall, he looks like he’s walked straight from the desert and into her sight-she could almost see the sand that hangs off his skin. He eyes her hungrily, and she figures she’s a sight, the ropes tied tight in all the right places, her dress just a little tight from work and her heels still attached to her feet. Her eyes are ablaze and staring right at him as her fingers work towards the knot in the back of her ties.

“What do you want?” she snaps at him, looking incredibly unhappy. “I’m in no mood to play games.”

“This is no game, I assure you Miss Moriarty,” he says, his voice heavy with an Arabic accent. She looks at him closely, watching his brow and the way he speaks. _Egyptian,_ she thinks to herself, _What’s he doing there? In Egypt?_

“Where is Jim?” she snaps again at him, “Release me now.”

“I’m afraid we’re under orders not to,” another voice says, and Anthea whips her head around to see another man coming from the shadows. He’s Egyptian as well, and tailored well in a suit. His hands are in his pockets and he strolls toward her with a predatory gleam on his face.

“Prettier in person,” he murmurs to himself. Anthea works her fingers behind her back towards her dress. There’s a knife tucked in the waist of her knickers and there is a stitched up hole in the near by. She did it just incase, and now it was coming in handing. Her face neutral, she moved only her hands slowly, watching the two men carefully, looking for tells.

“Where is he?”

“Who?” the man mocked, it’s just us.

“My brother.” 

The man chuckles darkly at her. He reminds her vaguely of a thief from a movie, yet more stupid, like he hasn’t the faintest idea who he’s got tied up in front of him. She’s not going to let him in on the secret though because that’d be unfair to them. Instead, she watches the pair of them, blubbering idiots and Anthea almost feels insulted that these two thugs were the ones holding her captive.

“Your brother is not coming Miss Moriarty,” he says laughing “But he sends his re-guards though, says, he’s “waiting” for that little boss of yours.” 

Anthea laughed. “He’s not coming,” Anthea answers them laughing “I’m not a damsel in distress. He’s not coming to rescue me. How very childish of you brother,” she shouts out to the cameras watching “He’s no knight in shining armor. If anything, he’s just like you, cold and heartless you JEALOUS BASTARD!” 

She lets it roar, ripping it from her throat angrily. She’s thoroughly pissed off at this point, and the knife has ripped through the dress and the ropes and she’s up on her feet lunging for the man with the gun. A round house kick she has him down, the heel of her shoe slicing into the skin near his neck, slicing through tendons to disconnect his shoulder. He screams in agony and she slides the heel from his skin, blood coating her skin as it spurts out. She throws a punch to the jaw and the mountain of a man falls with a thud, the rifle rolling out of his hands. She picks it up just as the sound of bullets ring out and she ducks, turning around and ducking behind the nearest barrel. The smell of explosives grows as she gets closer to it. Then she realizes-

“Those barrels are filled with Semtex,” the man calls out, “One bullet and this place goes up.”

Anthea inhales quickly as she rolls the barrel over in her hands. She’s fired a gun before but she’s not good at it, hand to hand combat was her speciality (as was bow and arrow) and she’s fumbling about with the barrel. Another shot goes off over head and she hears a thud near her. Peeking over the barrels, she looks up to find the man dead. It’s a sniper near by and the red pointer rests across her body, tracing her chest, a little pattern over her heart. She holds her breath and follows the line until she can’t see anything but darkness. Then the light goes off. 

It turns out that the Egyptians did have a large assault planned and that when Mycroft found her she was in the midst of their secret base. She’d almost found herself out of the base (not a warehouse but a base) before the team came in to find her. She refuses to be escorted out and walks out in her heels, her bloodied heels, ruined and finds Mycroft standing by the car. 

She sees him and fumes. She didn’t need saving. She knew exactly who was behind this and knew she was going to be unharmed. He’s here and she can almost see concern across his face, but everything’s a bit of a blur and red and before she can stop herself she’s storming up to him.

“I can handle myself,” she sneers “I don’t need to be saved.” 

“Oh?” he says, “You were just going to walk out of that terrorist cell’s headquarters?”

“Yes,” she snaps, yanking at her heels. She can feel his eyes raking over her legs, the blood spattering the cream color, looking just as soft and rich as butterscotch, tainted red by blood. Her shoes are ruined and he knows if he’d come sooner she wouldn’t have to sacrifice them to a man’s subscapularis and another man’s...oh testicles. She pulls her shoes off and grips them in her hand. She’s not even squeemish as the flesh hits her hands. He notes this. She’s a strange one, lack of fear, cold like him. It made him smile just a bit.

“Where are you off too?” he asks, “You must be check out.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” she snaps again, “I told you. I was fine. I had it under control.”

She spins back away from him and stalks towards the car running, the one waiting for her. He smiles a little as she goes, one eyebrow raised. It’s almost like she knew something he didn’t and she wasn’t telling him. He’d find out soon enough though, because she was too nonchalant, too calm. Unless she knows something else. But right now, he’ll just watch her go, because the back of her dress is ripped right by the bottom of the zipper and her purple lacy knickers were in his sight.   
And what a sight it was.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Mythea. Yes~~

It’d been about three weeks since Jim had his hissy fit. Anthea, as suspected, was fuming with him. The first time he tried to come into the flat, the night after the incident he’d made it into the leaving room before a sail of knives came into his direction, each one passing just close enough to take the stubble from his chin and hairs from the back of his head. They’d all sliced into the wall near his head before landing soundly in the wall. He’d taken his leave. The second time he hadn’t even made it in the place, just barely opening the door before a hole ripped through it from a shell. The third time he’d tried to get into the flat he hadn’t even made it up the stairs-she’d left the door open- and in her hands was a heavy rifle that she could just point and take him out with. He smiled and laughed each time she tried to take him out (from start to finish) and just skipped happily out of the flat without so much as a second glance. 

Anthea finally lets him back in, about a week before she’s to leave for America, so she can break it to him easily and allow him enough time to adjust to her absence. She broke it to him as they lay in bed, her a top him, skin to skin, dragging a knife across his chest, tracing pointless circles across his heart. She’s amused by the patterns, thinking that if she presses hard enough she could slice him up before he knew what was happening. It brings a small smile to her face and he brushes his hand through her hair, a silent question. She kisses her brothers stomach and presses her chin against it, looking up at him. His eyes are quizzical, questioning, large and completely black as he watches her. His face is quite light from this angle, a surprising difference from his normal look-the light hitting his forehead and bouncing across his features and brightening his sharp teeth. 

“I,” Anthea begins, drawing her tongue across the middle of her brothers chest, “Am going away for a while.”

Jim snaps his head up from the soft pillows and grabs her hair harshly. He drags her up his body, pulling her face just right up against his, nose to nose and holds her there as he yells in her face.

“Say that again!” he shouts and she doesn’t flinch, just presses the blade in her hand closer to his skin, pressing the cool metal tip just a bit closer to his heart. She had an out if she so needed.

“Work,” she said, eyes not leaving his face as she spoke, “Work calls Mr. Holmes to America. I’ll be going with him.”

“WHY,” he snaps his mouth close to her, his teether gleaming and sharp, like a lion, just waiting to snap off her face. She presses the knife into his chest, a small warning wound, and he hisses through his teeth at her and she waits for him to calm, just a little bit before she spoke.

“It’s work, brother,” she says calmly “I’ll be back, I promise.”

Jim looks at her harshly in the eye. Obviously he couldn’t stop her from leaving, but he’d be grumpy when she’d go. Huffing out into her face he watches the hair blow from her eyes as she smiles.

“Good boy,” she says with a grin.

__________________________________________________________________________

 

Mycroft took her again to find his brother, who actually had been holed up in his flat since they’d last encountered him. As Anthea picks her way through the crazy mess of his flat, Mycroft just leans against the doorway, watching his brother struggle to stand on his feet. She’s heading into the kitchen (she thinks) to check on his food supply. He’s scrambling to his feet (or trying to) and mumbling incoherencies. 

“Go away Mycroft,” he mumbles loudly to the carpet near what appears to be a decomposing toe. Mycroft frowns deeply at his brother. Anthea’s almost to the fridge when she steps into something warm and gooey, and as she looks down she realizes it’s a rotting pig carcass that’s currently taking hold of one of her shoes and before she can stop it she lets out a disgusted noise.

“Ugh!” she says, shaking out of the skin. The warmth of blood crawled down her leg as she stepped up to the fridge. Finding it empty she trudges back to Mycroft’s side. He looks over her frazzled state and pauses on her leg, the silk of the nylon soaked with blood. 

“My dear?” he questions, looking down to her leg. Anthea shrugs and looks at it as well.

“Pig’s carcass,” she says, “It’s on the floor near the fridge. I’m afraid I stepped into it.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft snaps at the man who’s now seated himself in the only seat available in the place. He’s wrapped in a blue flannel bathrobe and grey shirt and boxers, looking anything but good with the stubble peppering his strong jaw. Sherlock’s lazy eyes looked her over before he turns his head away. 

“It’s nothing,” Anthea answers, “I can change.” Instantly, she steps away and pushes her hands up to her hips under her skirt to grip the nylons. She pulls them down her legs as she steps out of her shoes and yanks them down her legs. Both the Holmes boys watch her with fascination (and lust, but they’d never say that) as she slides them off her creamy legs and stuffs them into her bag. She steps back into her shoes and shakes her head.

Mycroft raises a questioning eyebrow at her but doesn’t say anything else. He’s very much a professional and is not about to let on the intrigue that she’s given him. And he’s certainly not going to think about the now bare legs of his assistant, the skin dying pink-almost red. Mycroft watches his brother as he huffs like a grumpy little kid and glares at them.

“I’m not going to apologize for that,” he answers.

“Sh-”

“No ones asking you to,” Anthea snaps at him and Sherlock turns his gaze to her. His eyes are sharp, trying to dissect the woman that’s snapped at him, trying to understand her. Her hair is perfect, eyes, sharp, lips set into a frown line and her stance, fiery, ready to attack. If Sherlock didn’t know any better, he’d say she’s pissed. And a rather scary pissed, if he didn’t know any better, it was all directed at him.

He didn’t know any better.

“You’re going to clean this mess up,” she says in a tone that’s motherly “If not, I’m one phone call away to hazardous waste services and I will say there’s a threat to national security in which they’ll come down here and take everything away, including you.”

Both of the Holmes boys were quiet. Sherlock looks away and grumpily folds his arms over his chest, staring at the opposite wall.

“Yes,” Mycroft says “Well, we’ll be going. I think Anthea’s said all that needs to be said, hasn’t she?”

Mycroft looks at his assistant with a small grin and then nods to his brother before turning and leaving, trudging up the stairs to the door. He has to find a better flat, though Mycroft as he headed out to the street, this one isn’t going to last much longer. Anthea follows him, glued back to her mobile and climbs into the car behind him. She seems like nothings just happened, like she did not just tell off Mycroft’s younger, snippy little brother. Mycroft’s impressed, but he won’t say that aloud. 

“Well played,” Mycroft says, and Anthea just gives him a small smile as the car pulls away. Well played indeed. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Anthea approaches her question while they sit on the plane, heading to the U.S. He’s settled across from her, fingers playing notes against his wine glass filled with water and musing over the board of chess in front of him. Anthea’s winning, and he’s meticulously playing moves over in his head before placing his knight out into a venerable position, knowing that she wasn’t so bold as to risk her queen to take it. 

“Sir,” she says, but his eyes catch hers and he clears his throat.

“You can call me Mycroft dear,” he says with a small smile “We’re the only ones on this plane for the next 13 hours.” 

Anthea smiles at him. “Mycroft,” she says, the name sounding strange on her tongue. She stares up at him with wide eyes, wanting his attention. He gives it to her, fully and undivided, waiting for her to speak. “I wish not to carry a gun anymore.” 

He blinks and then slowly, very slowly, his brow furrows and he watches her, trying to understand why. When he can’t read it in her face, he nods and cocks his head to the side. 

“Why, dear?”

“I have yet to pass the shooting requirements,” Anthea begins “And I’ve never been that handy with a gun before. My brothers were better with firearms. I did well with a bow. I understand that I can’t carry it around, but perhaps a knife? I’m rather handy with a knife.” 

Mycroft nods and stares down at the board. She’s taken the bold move of taking his knight, exposing her queen. He stares at the board and positions a pawn next to her bishop. She’s excellent at this game, quite a challenger, her moves are unpredictable and he thinks she’d be a match for his younger brother excellently. 

“You’re rather important to me,” Mycroft begins “It would be safer for you to carry a gun.”

Anthea moves her rook in place and nods. “It’s difficult Mycroft. I’d feel safer if I could practice hand to hand combat. Also, checkmate.”

Mycroft, surprised, looks down at the board to see that, indeed, her rook has pinned his king behind two pawns that cannot be move. Mycroft chuckles softly to himself and leans back, clasping his hands together in front of him. He grins at the younger girl across from him and watches her as she cocks her head to the side and smiles. 

“You’re quite good,” he says. “Come” he adds, gesturing to the seat next to him, “I’ll teach you how to shoot.” 

Anthea kicks out of her heels and walks around the board, settling into the cozy leather seat next to him. She slides down into it and folds her feet up underneath her, just as he pulls out his phone.

“We can work on it together,” he says, “On Fridays after lunch. We’ll go to the a special range.”

“I can just keep training on my own,” she says, uncomfortable that her boss would teach her. But Mycroft shakes his head.  
“No,” he says “We’ll go together. I can teach it to you faster than any other agent can.”

She gives him a playful smile. “Handy with a gun Mr. Holmes?”

He smiles at her easily. “MI6 status as well, my dear.” He winks at her playfully and she grins, shaking her head to stare back out the window. He sticks his phone away and stares down at the board.

“Might as well rest,” he tells Anthea “It will be a while until we land in DC.” 

Anthea nods and yawns, tucking her head under her arms. Mycroft rests next to her, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. When they land in DC, Anthea’s head is resting on Mycroft’s chest and Mycroft has an arm possessively wrapped around her shoulders.


	7. Chapter 7

Anthea had always known she was rather young to be in political affairs, but that was an understatement in the United States. One of the few females, and obviously the youngest, she was always getting sideways looks as she sat perfectly still in meetings by Mycroft’s side. Men of all ages glanced at her whenever she headed into a meeting. She’d been stopped twice by government officials informing her that she wasn not allowed in the meetings. Mycroft, with a turn of the corner of his lips got her into each meeting alongside him.

But each of those meetings where hopelessly dull. She’d found herself more and more bored as the day drew on. Nothing seemed to be catching her attention that afternoon. During one meeting, her fingers typing away on the tiny keyboard, she had half an ear turned to what was going on, she was dull. Mycroft seemed bored as well, his head rolling and fingers tapping his leg underneath the table. Anthea had been making appointments on her phone when she suddenly felt the warmth of a hand come to rest on her upper thigh. Although completely clothed, she felt the heat radiated up her leg and through her body, chasing the chill away so fast it almost made her shiver visibly. She knew whose fingers they were, long and pointed, and very perfectly cradling the top of her thigh. She, not wanting to look up, leaned toward him before he whispered something very close to her ear, his hot breath just enforcing what his early touch was telling her.

“Check on my brother will you?” he murmured lowly and she just nodded before fumbling over her own fingers, trying to send a text to his brother. She could have sworn she heard him mutter “Good girl” as he pulled away from her. Her fingers trembled over the keyboard as she typed out a message to his brother and pressed send.

_Have you cleaned up? -Mycroft via PA_

A few seconds later she got a text.

_Beyond repair- SH_

_Find somewhere else to live- Mycroft via PA_

_Can’t afford elsewhere -SH_

_Get a flatmate- Mycroft via PA_

After that the messages stopped and Anthea turned back to the meeting, just in time to feel her throat constrict and her breathing nearly stop. They’d moved on to talk about up and coming threats while she’d dealt with Sherlock, and had missed the part where they began to show pictures. It looked like a dock, somewhere in America, black and white and in the middle of the night where am man was unloading crates. They were bombs. There was a small cut out, enlarging the side of one of the objects the man held. 

“H.A.N.N.A.H,” the American giving the presentation said, “Hannah bombs. Not sure where they’re made or who makes them, but they’ve become the biggest threat to the nation. They’re designed to look like gas leaks. One has gone off in California, in a sub division, destroying 800 homes. I know that Germany’s had a few pop up, China as well, and the middle east is being armed with them. We’ve got no leads, everyone we’ve interrogated gives a different source to the supplier. UK, any luck?”

“We’ve had one,” Mycroft said lazily, and Anthea instantly knows that he knows her flat’s explosion was not an accident, that it was, in fact a H.A.N.N.A.H bomb, built and designed by her lovely older brother. She kept still and gave away no hints to knowing that he knew, simply nodding along with him speaking. “And as you have, we’ve got no leads,” Mycroft continued, and Anthea relaxed just a bit inside.

They don’t know yet.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Later, after the meetings and the day ends, Mycroft and her are invited to a bar in the D.C. area to enjoy drinks with politicians alike. Anthea almost declines because she’s never socialized before. It’d been her and Jim all along, she’s never had any others in her life. And it’s painfully obvious as she sits at the bar by herself, fingers rimming the glass of tonic water in front of her. The bar is a nice place, packed with suits, men mostly, and while she’s painfully the prettiest woman there, her beauty is also a curse, because she’s alone at the bar. Men swarm to women with intelligent faces, aged but covered beautifully with make up. Anthea is intelligent in her eyes but not face and for once her beauty is a downfall.

She feels a strange pang of something in her chest when she looks over to see Mycroft with a strange smile on his face. She’s seen a range of his smiles but not this one, this one is charming and purposeful and it’s almost like a flirting smile with a petite Asian business woman in his gaze. She thinks he’s trying to be charming, and she studies that smile. That pang in her chest tightens and she thinks for a moment its jealously. She’s jealous of the woman that’s touching his expensive suit, smiling at his educated face, refined and classy. She’s got intelligence written across hers, like she’s been at this for a long time, and Anthea looks away, taking a sip of her drink. She’s got no experience with feelings, she’s always been cold her whole life, without feeling, detached.

Mycroft’s making her attached.

Her attention’s lost from watching Mycroft and the thin Asian woman, turning instead to meet the soft blue eyes of a blonde haired man with an overly bleached smile. He’s trying to charm her, to make her think she’s more than just a PA Mycroft has brought with him, trying to make her feel smarter than she looks. She just gives him a simple, charming smile and grabs her bag and phone, heading to the door. She’s not really meant to be here anyway. She excuses herself from his smile, and he helps her off the stool and onto the her heels, discreetly (but not enough for her) slipping his number into her bag. He asks if he can call her a cab, but she gives him a special Anthea smile, a smile that says “maybe next time” and she says she’ll get her own cab.

Mycroft meets her outside as she trying to flag down a cab. Her coat is buttoned up to the top, hiding her simple work outfit and her hair is still neat and in curls. He’s always admired her beauty, how she’s like a present, wrapped up in gorgeous with an even sweeter gift inside-a brain-and yet she’s so distant it’s just like him. She’s cold and practical, even at drinks, and she’s not comfortable socializing. He idly wonders why she’s this way.

“Are you leaving?” he calls out to her as she signals a nearing cabbie. She turns, and does not smile, her face does not light up and she nods.

“I should get back,” she says, “I’ve got to schedule the plane and things of the like.”

Mycroft nods, a reasonable excuse. He’s got know reason to make her stay. “Fair enough. Goodnight dear.” 

She nods and climbs back into the cab, not even looking back as it pulls away. It burns him just a little bit. It hurts just a little. But not enough to chase after her. He doesn’t chase. He’s never chased. He watches the cab pull away from the curb before turning back to head inside the pub and to the smiling woman that’d caught his attention.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It’s the next morning that Anthea knocks on his door, dressed wonderfully in her favorite purple wrap dress, that the small, thin Asian woman opens the door. She has half dressed herself, in a two-day old pencil skirt and white camisole as she hopelessly combs her fingers through her hair. Anthea’s never been in this situation before and so she frankly has no idea what to say. 

“Mycroft,” the woman calls back into the room awkwardly “Your P.A. is here.”

“Ah Catherine,” he calls, “Please let her in Ms. Wang.” 

The thin Asian woman with the intelligent face moved aside as Anthea moved into the room. The room ultimately smelled of sex, and the wrinkled sheets of the large King size bed confirmed that. Well that, and the fact that her boss currently sat, completely comfortably dressed in a silk gray robe, paper open in front of him and a cuppa set right by him on the small table. He eyed her in her dress before turning back to the paper.

“That color is wonderful with your hair,” he said nonchalantly as if he were stating a fact. Anthea had no comment. Instead, she settles in the chair next to his and checks her phone.

“Our flight is scheduled for 4:45 this afternoon,” she says “You’re free the rest of this morning...” she trails off carefully eying the bathroom to see if the women was listening. She’s putting on her make up and as she looks back to her phone, Mycroft’s looking at her, just looking at her and she’s looking back at him, nothing in either one of their eyes. Anthea’s learned well to hide everything, Jim takes every opportunity to mock her emotions, so she’s good at hiding it in her eyes. He seems to be skilled in it as well and as she’s looking into his eyes she’s trying to find anything different but all she’s finding is his mind full of questions, and just a tiny bit of concern.

“How are we going to spend it?” he asks lazily and Anthea turns her face back to her phone.

“Well,” she says, “I was going to see New York City, I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”

“Oh?” he says, eyebrow raised as he turns his face back to the paper “By yourself?”

“I,” she starts and her fingers stall against the keys are her keyboard, “I’m sorry sir, I had no idea you’d want to come with me? I just assumed you’d like time to yourself.”

He chuckles deep and soft at her stuttering fingers and places his hand on her wrist, catching her eyes. She drags them up to his and he looks (for a second, just a split moment) one part lost puppy and one part human. She wonders if he’s even real sometimes.

“You’d need a guide right?” 

Anthea shake her head and turns back to her phone, fighting the smile as she looks down. “Well, the car will be here at 7:30,” she says before standing up and heading for the door. She turns and nods at him. “I will see you then, sir.”

“Yes, of course,” he says quietly, dismissively, and she ends up leaving his company silently, with a soft click of the door. Outside, in the hallway, she’s sighing heavily. She’s not sure what to make of her boss, one minute he’s heartless and the next he’s nearly human, an almost person, sitting in his silk bathrobe where a smart-looking woman is dressing in the bathroom. He confuses her more than her brother and she herself can’t figure what to make of it. He keeps her at an arms length and while she doesn’t mind it he seems to tease her for a few moments. But he could not want her.

She knows it’ll only be professional between them. But for once in her life, she dreams. She dreams that maybe it could be something more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea and Jim get into a spat. Mycroft takes notices.

The plane ride home was dull and uneventful. Anthea and Mycroft played three games of chess, (upon which Anthea accused him of letting her win, which he most certainly did not) a game or two of cards, a game of cribbage and finally gin rummy. Halfway through the flight Anthea fell asleep in her chair across from Mycroft, her head nestled underneath her arm as she dozed. He watched her sleep, and for the first time he could see the innocence on her face. She looked young, so very young. Her shoes rested at the foot of her seat, small feet tucked up underneath her. Her body rose and fell softly. She was built athletically, strong and graceful-seductive. Mycroft sighed heavily. He shouldn't even be having thoughts of the young woman resting across from him, but he can't help it. Half his age, she's the perfect counterpart to the political storm he is, the balance that he seemed to lack. She passed him no judgements, no comments, nothing quite snarky enough to annoy him. She was the perfect mystery. And the calamity they were calmed him.

When the plane landed, Mycroft shared a car with her to her flat, staring silently out the window as she typed away on her blackberry. She seemed completely content with the silence between them. Sure, it'd been just a little awkward between them that morning (or yesterday's morning) when she'd found him casually lounging around with his one night stand, but she figured it was just something he did. She'd get used to it. In fact, she already was. She was already typing away his schedule on her phone when she felt the car lurch to a stop and she looked up to see they'd arrived. And it looked like the flat was intact this time around.

Jim was just getting back, from it looked like the mart, wearing a ball cap and a blue button up shirt with dark jeans. When she stepped out of the car, instantly he gave her a smile (which she knew was for show) and she wrapped her arms around him for a hug. He'd grown a beard in her absence, and it appeared that he too had been away in travel. He smelled like sand and sun and when he let her go, he grinned deviously to her.

"Need help with your things, sis?" he said casually, loud enough for the now near-Mycroft to hear.

"Would you?" she asked, "Your hands are full it looks like."

He smiled fakely at her and then to the man standing behind her. He was taller than Jim had thought he'd be, and he stood regally. His eyes were sharp and most delicious, and Jim instantly had the urge to gouge them out and save them in a jar for later. But, thinking it probably wasn't the best idea at the moment, he straightened up.

"Um," he said, "I'm Jim, Jim Hannan," he said, "Nice to meet you-?"

"Holmes," he said, "Mycroft Holmes. And the same to you."

Mycroft tilted his head up to acknowledge him. Anthea had since moved around to grab her bags. Mycroft and Jim stared at each other. Jim fought the urge to lick his lips. The man standing in front him looked delectable, like candy and wine, red red wine that he would bathe in. He could smell his pulse from where he stood, and all he wanted to do was to rip the red from his body, take him apart vein by vein and crawl into his skin to wear it. He was a delectable man, a perfect trophy, and Moriarty wanted every second of him to himself.

"Thank you sir," Anthea said as she dropped her stuff at her brother's feet, bringing him out of his mouth watering dream. Jim looked down at the bags and grabbed them, grinning at the man.

"It's been a pleasure," Mycroft said easily before nodding at his assistant and stepping back into the car. She watched him drive off before turning back to Jim and frowning, shoving her bags into his arms.

"You bloody git," she snapped before unlocking the flat's door and going inside. Her brother followed behind, nearly running into her when she stopped in the doorway. The living room had been over run with boxes of plastic explosives, stack high, other boxes held guns and other weapons. There were bomb-making parts spread across the couch and a few assembled on the kitchen table. Jim slid by Anthea with her bags, dropping them in the bedroom before coming back out.

"I've acquired a new warehouse in Istanbul," Jim said, "This is only temporary."

"It better be," she snapped, "They know about you, you know," she said, stepping off her high shoes, she swung a heel around and pointed it at him, "They know about your little bombs, what they're called, they know you blew up our last place-" she said, "But they don't know you."

"Clever, isn't it?" he said, smiling at her.

"You're putting me in the firing line," she said angrily.

"This job's temporary," he said fleetingly, and he was about to comment again when he saw her face. He stopped and laughed, cackling when he realized the look on her face. She didn't actually think he'd keep her around as a PA forever did she?

"Anthea," he said standing, "Darling. He's not going to keep you."

"He thinks I'm good at my job," she said flatly, heading into the kitchen to get something to drink.

"He thinks you're a pretty face," Jim cackled happily, "And with the likes of his work, he needs a face the public will love."

Anthea whirls around with a knife in her hands. She's had a rough few days and is not in the mood for his games.

"You don't know a thing about my job, or my boss."

She returned to her plate, the apple placed in front of it as she cut it open. She thought idly maybe she would make something to eat other than snacks here or there, but her brother's voice, close to her ear caught her attention.

"He doesn't care for you that way," he said gently (well as gentle as he could) "And you don't care for him at all. We can't care for people sister."

"I ca-" but she stopped. She realized as much as she needed her brother to keep her secret, she didn't care for him. All her life she hadn't had anyone she cared for. Her brother was just there for her, someone to keep her company. And she was the same to him. She fulfilled things for him that he fulfilled for her. But nothing else. No connection.

"See," he said "You can't care for him sister, we're incapable of caring. Don't fool yourself."

Anthea's brow furrowed. "I think I care for him."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I think I might," she thought it over slowly, "Might want him."

"No you don't," Jim said, grasping her arms tightly. The knife in her hand clattered away, and she eyed it carefully. His grasp was tight, vicing off the blood in her arms. She knew there would be bruises. "You don't want him," Jim hissed in her ear, biting her neck dominantly, "You don't want anyone. I'm all you need," he hissed, one hand gripping her throat. He pressed it hard against her windpipe and she whimpered, almost inaudibly.

"I can want who ever I want," she snapped at him, fingers inching towards the knife. She could stab him in the eye, covering herself with the warm sticky liquid. She chuckled at the thought. But he too, could read her mind and he grasped the knife, throwing it away from her grasp.

"I'm all you'll ever need," he said, "We've only ever had each other, and that's all we'll ever need. I can take care of you sister," he said bitterly, choking her more. Anthea's vision began to fray and she clawed at his bruising grip on her arms, on hand holding her wrist that went for the knife, the other wrapped around her neck.

"N-n-n-no," she chocked out before gasping and letting the darkness take over. As she went limp in his arms she could hear him trying to soothe her and she could hear him murmuring sweetness in her ear.

"It's because I love you sister," he said, "I only do this because I love you."

To say Anthea was mildly intimidated by his presence was an understatement. It'd been about a week since she'd come back from America and Mycroft had promised her lessons on shooting, ones which he'd be giving her. And while she certainly hadn't expected him to back out of his offer, she was sure something would come up that Friday and they wouldn't be able to work on her shooting. But on that Friday, lunch rolled around and there was nothing pressing, nothing catching their attention right then and there. For once in her life, all the governments seemed to want to work. So, packing up her bag she stepped into the bathroom to change before trudging out to the car where Mycroft sat, waiting for her.

"Excellent dear," he said when she'd climbed into the car and shut the door behind her. She placed the bag at her feet and smiled lightly at him. "There's not need to be nervous dear, just a little bit of shooting practice."

"Nothing is ever "just a little bit" with you," she said, "What range are we going to?"

He chuckled and turned his umbrella around in his hands, "My private one."

Anthea resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his answer before turning to look out the window as the car drove on. Mycroft seemed to be observing her from his seat (when he wasn't fiddling with his phone). She could feel his eyes looking over her and she shifted discreetly in her seat. Jim'a words echoed through her ears as she sat there. Dispensable. She was dispensable to him. She placed her hand over her wrist tentatively. Normally, the bruises he left never bothered her. She didn't care who saw. But it's changed now. She cared if he saw. She wore her hair down and long sleeves (or coats) and never let him see. Idly, she wondered what he would say if he did.

The car pulled up to an abandoned building and he climbed out his side, she followed. Straightened her jacket, she slung her bag over her shoulder and trotted off behind him as he entered the building. The building was clean, spotless and she found him removing his jacket and placing it on the coat hang, leaning his umbrella against the wall.

"Show me what you can do first," he said, "Then we'll work our way up."

He undid his sleeves and rolled them up, placing the diamond cufflinks in the drawer of the cabinet near by. Shutting the drawer, he opened the next one, pulling out a gun for her and one for him.

"You know how to load one?"

"Of course sir," she said, and he stuck out the gun and cartage for her. She took them and loaded it, snapping it into place and clicking the safety on. He handed her a set of ear muffs before taking his own.

"All right," he said, gesturing toward the glass. She moved around it into the shooting range. Setting the gun down on the table she waited for him to bring up the targets. It was warm and she took her coat off. There wasn't enough space between dividers for him to get close enough to see her bluish bruises. She'd worn a tank top that day, knowing she would be doing training.

"In 3, 2, 1," he said.

"Clear, firing round 1!" she shouted before letting the bullets fly. Once they'd stopped she put the gun down and took out the cartage. He pressed the red button to bring up her target. It was worse then she imagined. She'd clipped the target twice, and all the other bullets missed.

"Well," Mycroft said chuckling under his breath, "We can fix this."

"I'm much handier with a knife," she said, taking the cartage that he held out for her. She loaded it and he replaced the target sheet, sending it back out the range it had been at.

"When we're through," he said, much closer than he had been before, "You'll be an expert shooter. Now, take aim."

His breath was hot on her neck and she took aim, standing like she'd been taught, feet shoulder width apart, arms straight in front of her, but not locked. His front was pressed against her back and she could feel his lean lines through his shirt, his hot tall frame engulfing her ever curve.

"Now," he said, right by her ear, "You've got to lower your elbows just a bit." His hands touched her elbow, cradling them in his fingers. He pulled on them and dragged them down, breathing lightly on her neck. He felt like hot hot heat against her neck, brushing over her bruises. Shit, bruises.

But it was too late. His left hand slid up her arm gently, brushing against the bruises that her brother left and she flinched. He, of course, noticed, and instantly he froze behind her, pressing closer as he tilted his head to look at her left forearm. Fingerprints as clear as day were pressed against her flesh. Instantly she felt her right wrist flinch reflexively and he looked over to see those bruises, ringing around her skin as well. He turned her nose into her hair and brushed it aside, exposing the bruises on her neck.

"Anthea," he said lowly into her ear, "What happened to you dear?"

She spun, the gun being lost on the table behind her. There was no space to go anywhere, and he blocked her escape route. She stared up at him, eyes wide and clear.

"Nothing," she said, "Nothing happened to me."

"Who did this to you," he asked calmly, soothingly, his fingers holding onto her left wrist, his other hand resting on her other arm in the unbruised spots.

"We just got in a domestic, that's all," she murmured, "My brother and I. Nothing unusual. Now please, let me go."

She placed one hand on his chest and pressed into her fingers to push him back to discover her fingertips were shaking. He noticed this too, which was why he let her go. She gathered up her jacket and phone, sticking her arms back into them.

"I'll see you back at the office sir," she said formally.

And with that she left him standing there, silently fuming.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Jim meet. Things ensue.

Jim knew he was here the moment he stepped up to the door to their flat. He'd recognize the scent of politics anywhere, and so, as he stepped up to his door, the key in his hand, he instantly stiffened. He knew exactly why he was here, exactly why he wanted into his flat. But Jim had to remember he was Jim Hannan to Mr. Holmes, not Moriarty, (yet anyway) and he had to make sure he was the bluthering brother he introduced himself as. Although since he was here, Jim was sure he'd figured out that wasn't entirely the case. Ignoring the political stench, he opened the door and trudged up to the living room, pushing open the door as if nothing were amiss.

It was a good thing he'd cleared out his stash of explosives a few days ago, boxing them up and shipping them off with two loons he hadn't bothered to get the names of because as he entered the flat, he found the man with the sharp eyes sitting in Anthea's seat, facing the door, waiting for him.

"Mr. Hannan," Mycroft said with a grin, "Come, take a seat."

Jim, in order to keep up his act, eyed the room before nervously settling into the seat across from Mr. Holmes, his fingers drumming on his thighs. Mycroft looked at his umbrella with a bored expression, raising an eyebrow questioningly at it.

"I suppose you know that I know there is no Jim Hannan," he said smoothly, calmly, turning the umbrella in his palm.

"I'm Jim Hannan," he said, looking confused at the man in the suit.

"Hm," Mycroft mused, clearly unamused by his remark. Jim's insides were so giddy that he shifted just in his seat a little bit. Mycroft caught this movement and eyed him. Instantly, Jim dropped the act and smiled at him, his fingers thrumming over the side of the chair.

"You're smarter than the average politician," he said, his head rolling back and forth. Mycrfot smiled at the man as he smiled back.

"And who do we call you?"

"Jim Hannan," he said, "Who else?"

"Pleasure," Mycroft drawled, "I suppose you know why I'm here."

"Oh of course," Jim said, "But the question is, does she know you're here?"

Mycroft looked away and Jim chuckled, a predatory gleam across his face. Mycroft snapped his head back and tilts his chin, challenging the gaze of Jim. Delicious, Jim thinks, and he almost licks his lips but refrains, opting to swallow inside, tapping his fingers faster.

"And she never will," Mycroft said knowingly, "You won't tell her. You're...afraid of her."

"How cute," Jim laughs, "Afraid of her," Jim curls his fingers around the cushion, trying not to lose his temper yet. He didn't want to lose it yet and skin him now, ruining all his fun for later. Instead, he gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles threatening to become white. "I'm not afraid of her."

"Clearly," Mycroft answered, a bit of resentment in his voice. All he'd been able to see since Friday were those marks on her skin, her smooth silky skin, and how they looked so dark and evil in comparison. The man in front of him seemed to be too weak to make the marks, but as he slowly came out of his shell, Mycroft began to realize he wasn't just as he seemed to begin with. There was something dark inside this man and what bothered him, was that he couldn't place his finger on what it exactly was.

"Awe," Jim said, his face squeezing into a pout, "That's sweet. You're here because you care for her."

"Caring is not an advantage."

"Doesn't look like that's stopped you."

Jim lolled his head back and forth and grinned at the man across from him. Mycroft, not one for games, stood up and buttoned his suit jacket with a frown. Jim simply sat in the chair opposite him, eyes looking up at him as he moved. The man was tall and svelte, elegant and refined. He could see why his sister picked him. He looked simply like sex itself, the kind that is forbidden and locked away. Jim was always a fan of things he couldn't have. And oh how he wanted this all to himself. A nice rug his skin would make, his eyes would make the best decoration on his mantle piece, and his delicious blood, oh how he'd like to bathe in that, to soak his skin in it, to feel it wrap him in the warmth. He'd like to dismantle this man, piece by piece and store them away. His sister had good taste.

"I have no time for games," Mycroft said, "Take this as a warning Mr. Hannan."

Jim chuckled to himself as Mycroft made his leave. He didn't even move from his seat. Mycroft looked down at the man with distaste. Who was he that he can dismiss Mycroft with a single glance? To make him question his own invented saying? There was this darker feel about him, something that he couldn't quite place his finger on. And, come to think of it, it was the same feeling he got from Anthea as well, something he couldn't quite place his finger on, something...amiss. He chalked hers up to innocence, but him? He could not be quite so...innocent. He headed to the door just as Jim spoke up.

"Try not to get too attached Mr. Holmes," Jim called from his seat, "She has a nasty habit of playing with her food."

It took less than twelve hours for her to find out he'd gone to see her brother. She'd seen the scheduling flaw, the one he thought he'd so carefully placed into his lunch hour, only to have her come storming into his office angrily. She slammed the door behind her and stormed over to his desk, hands on her hips, her blackberry screen facing him. He eyed her carefully, unsure how to proceed. He'd dealt with angry women and men before, but for some reason her fury looked, well, actually adorable and amusing. She however, was clearly unamused.

"You saw him," she said, her voice frighteningly calm for the expression she wore. Mycroft looked at her grimly.

"Yes of course, it's on my schedule," he said, trying to play it off. She, however was not amused.

"My brother," she said coolly, "You went and saw my brother."

This time, he could not play dumb and instead just nodded, agreeing with what she said.

"Yes," he answered, "I want to talk to him about those bruises."

"I don't need you to talk to him," she said stormily "We fight all the time, this happens all the time!"

"Really? And its acceptable to bruise you, to bite you?"

"It's really none of your business is it? Do you do this to all your office workers?"

Mycroft, by now, stood up to stare at her. He tilted his chin up at her to make himself look taller, more elegant in front of her. She did not flinch as he moved himself upward. She watched him carefully as he came around the front of his desk to stand near her. She tilted her head up to meet his eye, not flinching. She knew his tactics to get the opposing side to back down, and she wasn't about to give in. Mycroft took the time to study her gaze, trying to read her. Her brother's (if he was really even that) words rang in his head since they met. He glanced in her eyes, looking for the inner darkness he'd found in her brother. He found not the same darkness, not the same, clear cut, directed darkness. She, she was different in her black, her was a learned one, much like her fineness, learned, not inherited. She had much training to be this way, this bleak, and he suspected with every fibre of his body that her brother was the one behind it all.

"Not all my office workers are MI6 trained. How does it look on you that your brother beats you?"

She, infuriated, steps close to him, eyeing him up from her lower position, "He does not beat me," she hissed angrily, "How dare you-"

"How dare I what, Anthea? How dare I gather concern for my assistants welfare? How dare I car-"

He stopped himself, realizing just what he was about to say before straightening up and rolling his head to stare down at her. "You are very essential to my work, Anthea," he corrected, "And the fact that you're pushed around by your brother is not acceptable."

"No one pushes me around," she answered back, "Not my brother and certainly not you."

She fumed silently, watching him watch her. The sudden urge to touch his face was overwhelming, like it was the only thing she could think of. Her fingers ached to brush his cheek with her palm, to feel it. Is it soft or stubbly? Is his hair fine or coarse? Are his lips soft-

"Sir," she said softly, "I request that you not do this again. My brother is my problem and I am dealing with him appropriately."

Mycroft watched her face as she cataloged him. He watched her eyes trace his face, his cheek and then up to his hair, before dropping to his lips. If he so desired he could lean down and swoop in, kissing her ever so lightly. He could show her that his protection is not unwarranted, that her safety truly was important to him, not just to his job. He could press his fingers into her hair, feel the softness that taunted him daily, grasp it and hear her lips part with heavy breath, show her that not all men hurt her. Not all men are monsters. And all it would take was a swoop and step in.

Mycroft inhaled.

"If I find anymore bruises Anthea," he said with a warning glance, "I will not hesitate to remove you from your current living conditions."

"You won't have to," she answered, "No bruises."

She straightened up and retrieved her phone from around where he was currently leaning. She tucked it safely back away into her pocket and nodded up at him. She turned and headed for the door, stopping when her fingers touched the handle.

"And sir," she said, her tone suddenly dark and warning, "If you do continue to interfere in my life, I will not hesitate to quit."

She left the room, the door open. She meant what she told him.

Didn't she?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's too close for comfort.

It had been a particularly taxing day with Sherlock Holmes. Really, every time she'd gone to see Mycroft's younger brother had been taxing, but this time had just been a little bit more than usual. This time, Sherlock had been lucid enough to have a conversation with his brother. He'd even gotten dressed. When they'd arrived he was sitting in a chair playing his violin. He brought his playing to a screeching halt and glared up at the pair of them as they entered the room. He'd cleaned up the place, and she could see the floor, but it was still beyond repair. Anthea had done her inspection of his home quietly as Mycroft spoke with his brother. It was truly beyond repair. A large crack ran through the living room wall, the ceiling sagged down in the kitchen and it was clear that the tiles of the bathroom had water damage and the gout had begun to rot. She clicked away on her phone as they spoke. Mycroft told him he needed to find a place. He'd thrown a fit at first, but after a half hour of standing around, trying to calm him down, Sherlock threw them out (like normal) and she'd finally left him behind.

She'd come home to the surprisingly good smell of chicken cooking. Unlocking the door and stepping out of her shoes, she eyed the place carefully, looking for signs of death or disaster. Instead she found Jim, fully dressed in one of his suits, the jacket draped over the chair behind him. He'd set the dinner table for three and was currently inhaling the roasting chicken, checking to see if it were done.

"Jim?" she asked, and he spun, grinning dangerously at her. He shut the over with his foot and grabbed her hand, spinning her around and into the living room. He shoved her down against the couch and she sat up, just in time for him to let out a heavy sigh and flopped backwards onto the couch, his head coming to rest in her lap. Never really a snuggler-type, Anthea allowed him to rest there in her lap, her one hand coming up to run through his hair, the other to rest on his thin stomach. His hand shifted down into his pocket and he pulled out a knife, idly running his fingers along the edge. They hadn't sad anything since he gleefully pulled her down like this. His happy breathing slowed as he grinned up at her.

"Why are you cooking?" she asked him, fingers soothing down his hair. The knife threaded through his fingers as he shrugged.

"I'm having guests."

"You never have guests."

"Nor do you," he sing-songed to her.

"It's because I live with you," she drawled. Jim chuckled.

"How sweet, you love me," he said, a sickly grin across his face. She curled her fingers around his hair and tugged, hard. A his slipped passed his lips. The hand holding the knife swung up, sending the knife up into the ceiling, getting it stuck in the moulding. He fished around in his pocket and pulled out another knife, smaller, a pocket knife and began to play with it.

"Don't flatter yourself," she said darkly, kicking her feet up onto the nearest stool, her brother's head bouncing in her lap for a moment. He chucked darkly.

"Someone's testy today," he mused aloud, throwing the knife. It didn't quite make it into the roof and it came sailing back down. Jim caught it effortlessly and twirled it around again in his hands.

"So sue me, work's rough."

"Oh?" her brother raised an eyebrow and she pinched his stomach.

"Not that way, you twat," she said effortlessly, "Let's just say he's got a brother more testy than you."

Jim turned his face up to her and grinned, "Oh really?" he started, "Robo-man has a robo-sibling?"

"He's not a robot, Jim," she snarled, "He's just...well made of ice really. Cold. An Ice-man."

"Ice man," Jim mused, tossing the knife up to the roof again. This one gets stuck and he smiled with glee. Anthea's hand retracted from his shirt and she patted his stomach and shifted in her seat. He grabbed her hand and played with her fingers, bringing them up to his eyes to study each curve. he'd stuck on in his mouth to play with, and she idly wondered what drug he'd taken earlier. The thought was cut off by the opening of the door to the flat. Jim lifted his eyes over her hand, currently stuck in his mouth.

A man that looked vaguely familiar stepped through the door. Anthea eyed him carefully, trying to place him. She remembered. It was the man that brought home her bloodied brother, the one she was going to attack naked. She finally retracted her hand from his mouth and bumped his head from her lap with her knee, getting him to sit up lazily. He almost looked at the man with a bored expression. Anthea moved to stand, soothing out her skirt and wiping her fingers off.

"Hope I'm not interrupting something," the man ground out, his voice like rough gravel, like the stubble that decorated his chin. He had a pair of searing blue eyes that he directed at her. His body was chiseled and muscled and he instantly reminded her of a statue made of stone. He dwarfed the room instantly. Jim stood up and rolled his eyes at his companion, staring at her so lustfully.

"Paws off Sebastian," Jim growled "She's not available."

Anthea rolled her eyes and headed back into the kitchen, grabbing something from the fridge to eat. She shut it with her hip, just to see the two men coming into the kitchen. Sebastian frowned at her, seeing the food in her hand.

"Not going the fun tonight kitten?" he purred shamelessly. Jim scowled.

"Not tonight," she said with a mock frown, "Enjoy yourselves. Try not to be too loud, the neighbors tend to complain."

She threw her brother a mocking scowl before heading out and towards the guest bedroom, knowing it would be the quietest that evening. And quiet was what she needed.

She'd done well at her lesson today. She'd hit the target three times, twice in the dead centre and once in the shoulder. Mycroft had watched her from a distance (he hadn't touched her or been near her in a week, since her threat) and praised her when she did well. They finished a bit early, Mycroft insisting they had an errand they had to run. So she packed away the weapon in her drawer, changed back into her office clothes and followed Mycroft out into the car. He told the driver where to go, and she looked at him, puzzled. They were going to the super market?

"Sherlock needs food," Mycroft answered simply, looking out the window. Idly, he twirled his cane near his leg, his fingers twitching idly. He'd been on edge all day, Anthea noticed this, and what she really wanted to do was get him to relax. She'd brought him a calming tea that he didn't touch, spoke calmly and controlled and even avoided texting in his presence. But nothing, nothing seemed to curb his twitching. So Anthea side and stared out the opposite window, tapping her fingers on her leg, oblivious to the fact it was perfectly in sync with his own taps.

She followed him out of the car and he spoke carefully to the driver before coming to stand next to her.

"Please retrieve the shopping list from my notes," he said, and Anthea did so, quickly taking out her phone and typing away, pulling up the list he'd save on his notes back in the office. She followed him into the store, nearly running into him as he paused, waiting for her to retrieve a cart for him. But instead, she lifted her eyes and just looked at him. He sighed and walked over, pulling out a cart and coming back to her side. Just then, a woman (elderly) who'd been watching the exchange frowned and poked her head into their business.

"That's rude, you know," she said, "Making your father get the cart while you just stand there and text. Kids these days..."

Both Anthea and Mycroft simply stared at the woman, giving her identical expressions. Getting the hint, the woman scurried off, mumbling some sort of strange apology and how she knew tons of people who were together with large age gaps. Once she'd disappeared out of sight, Anthea raised an eyebrow but said nothing to Mycroft. He returned the look and strolled into the store casually, knowing they had a time table to keep.

They'd collected a few items before it happened. Anthea had just checked out 'milk' on her list when she heard the gun shots go off in the store. A few panicked screams rung out through the air and both Anthea and Mycroft froze in their aisle. From their position they could see three gun men come from the door, another standing guard. They looked at each other. It seemed too convenient that a robbery was occurring now. Silently, Mycroft and Anthea abandoned their cart, walking softly up towards the front to see what was happening. The men were gathering all the shoppers into one location. Mycroft flattened against the back of the shelves, Anthea falling next to him, peering around the corner.

"How many," he whispered into her ear, tickling her hair. This was no time to be aroused by your boss! Anthea thought. She blinked rapidly and counted again.

"One at the door, one with the people, two looking around for...us," she said softly, breathily. Mycroft too, seemed to be struggling with trying not to be aroused with her voice, so breathy and delicious. Of all the times, he thought harshly.

"How?" she said softly aloud.

"If there is a will, there is a way," he murmured, "Get low, we're going to change aisles."

She crouched down, readying herself, when she heard the glass above the doors shatter. A thud happened behind her and she whipped her head around, thinking they'd gotten him, her boss. Instead, there lay a gun men, down.

"Go!" Mycroft shouted, just as the other man came around the corner and started shooting at them. She bolted, heading for the next aisle. She heard a similar shot to the first and another window shattered. A sniper outside was shooting down the bad guys, but why? She didn't have time to process it, because the other gun men began to shoot. She watched the man at the door fall, followed by the two men who were herding the frightened people around. They ducked, avoiding flying bullets. Mycroft followed her movements, if she could get a gun, then maybe-

She saw the red dot on his chest before she heard the bullet shatter the glass. She knew instantly that the man outside, the sniper, just wanted Mycroft to himself. With a flash she moved him, using all the strength she could muster. She pinned him against the shelves with a loud thud, cans hitting them as they fell from the shelf. He looked down at her, panting from the adrenaline. The shooting stopped. She hadn't moved as she waited, waited to see if the sniper would shoot again. Instead, there was nothing but silence, a few sobs from confused customers and the wail of the sirens in the distance. When she thought it safe, she stepped back, staggering on her heels from the shift. Instantly, she froze.

There was blood on the front of his suit, a dark blood stain near his stomach. He'd been shot, oh God, I've failed, she thought instantly. He looked down at her, staring at his jacket.

"Sir," her voice trembled with fear. A police man came into the store then, and she looked up at him panicked, "I'm so sorry sir, you've been shot."

Mycroft looked at her, shocked. His eyes turned to concern as he watched her. The police were now flooding in, a few coming over to the pair of them. Mycroft signaled them silently with his eyes, getting them over to the pair of them as quickly as possible. He saw his driver by the door, and he sighed. At least they hadn't hurt him. Turning his face back to Anthea, he clean fingers clutched her cheeks, trapping them between his palms. He spoke to her calmly.

"No Anthea," he said, staring at her, "I haven't been shot. You have."

Anthea had just enough time to look down, to see the blood seeping from her stomach (she hadn't even felt the shot, stupid adrenaline, that's what it'd do to you) before looking back up at him, her eyes full of questions.

"Oh," she said calmly, "I hadn't even fe-"

And she collapsed into his chest.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit.

The first time she woke up, she was in the ambulance. There was an uncomfortable seizing feeling in her chest, followed by a heavy heavy pain in her stomach. She tried to move, but her body seemed to be strapped down, so she could only loll her head, just a bit. Her vision was blurry, but from what she could see, her boss was seated by her face, watching her. He showed no signs of distress or confusion on his face, and the fact he showed no emotion at all calmed her just a bit.

"Sir," she choked out, and he seemed to focus his eyes directly on her, "Your meeting."

He seemed to upturn a corner of his mouth at her. She saw his hand twitch, almost as if he were going to reach out for her, but he clasped them together instead, watching her intently.

"I've had to cancel it. It seems, my assistant, is not feeling well."

"Oh," she said with a cough, "Well how inconvenient of her."

This time, Mycroft actually did crack a smile at her, a strange one, and since it was the first time she'd really seen him smile (and oh what a smile it was) she laughed, inhaling deeply, causing a sharp pain to hit her side, followed by the feeling that she was slowly drowning.

"Punctured lung-" was the last thing she heard before slipping back into the blackness that she had once occupied.

The second time awoke, it was because the pain literally brought her out of her mind, and she came out with a screaming roar, bubbling past her lips, eyes going wide and seeing just white. She'd never been shot before (she'd been beat up, poisoned and burned, but not shot) and so the pain she was feeling was so incredibly disabling that she had no choice but to scream. She tried to breathe, but each breath caused her to strangle off with a cry, black spots dancing around her vision. She was moving but her boss was no where whiteness of her vision seemed to brighten then dim and she guessed she was on a stretcher by the way she moved. A face came into view and she tried to speak, but the air that she had sucked in was already gone.

"Ma'am," she said clearly, "Ma'am can you tell us your name?"

She struggled with words, her brain unable to function, opening her mouth to speak but nothing coming out. The nurse seemed to frown over her and she rolled her head, looking for Mycroft.

"Mycr-" she tried to choke out, wondering if he'd gone back to work or if he was here somewhere.

"Mrs. Holmes, your husband is here, he is okay," she said, and Anthea lolled her head back and forth, trying to disagree, to let them know she wasn't married to him. It must've been a mistake, she was sure Mr. Holmes wouldn't do this on purpose...unless?

She didn't have too much more time to consciously process this as her vision edged back to blackness and the once sharp and horrific pain was soothed over by her shock, ebbing away like an out going tide.

The next time she awoke it was briefer than before. She was in the hospital, in a room obviously paid for by Mr. Holmes ( or herself she couldn't be sure) and she was alone. There was an over-all numbness to her body and as she blinked rapidly, her vision began to clear up just enough to where she could see. The room was empty, not a soul trace that someone other than her had been there. She fumbled around with her fingers, and her fumbling she'd pressed a button lying by her hands. It must've been the drugs button, because she felt her vision fading away again, and this time, she didn't fight it.

The final time she awoke, it was to her brother sitting in the chair next to her, by her face. His fingers were clasped over the guard rail, eyes large and staring, just watching her sleep. She took a moment to survey the room, and upon realizing that he was the only one in there with her, she scowled at him and spoke, for the first time in what felt like years.

"You idiot," she snapped, voice rough from no use, "You missed."

Jim smiled and started chuckling at her, shaking his head back and forth.

"If I remember correctly," he said with a grin, "You jumped in front of him. Sebastian was right on target."

"Stop trying to kill my employer and we won't have this problem," she said again, lolling her head away from him. She didn't feel any pain, just numbness.

"You wouldn't have to worry about it if you just worked for me," he said, touching her chin to get her to look at him. She turned back, a little too sharply and hissed, looking at her brother.

"You know tat's not going to happen," she said, "I like my job."

"You like your boss-"

"I like what I like," she answered with a deadly hiss. Jim just smiled and patted her head.

"Of course you do," he answered. Anthea sighed and lolled her head away from him, her gaze falling on her fingers. Things had gotten so tense between them. It used to be easy, being his sister, and they could run wild together. But things like life got in the way, and now, as much as Jim wants her to stay the way she was, she feels she just can't, like if she were she'd be drowning herself. Jim was an excellent man, a great brother, and he was cut out for the life he wanted. She, wasn't. She just wanted something...else. She loved her brother (as much as she could) but things were getting so difficult between them.

"Can we?" she said, turning her head to face, "I want to go back to the way it was before...all this."

"All what?"

"Your...criminal mastery, my job, choking me, knocking you out, shooting me?"

Jim blinked and stared at her, unable to comprehend what she was trying to say to him.

"You mean this," he said, running his hand down her side, "Is not turning you on like it used to?"

Anthea shook her head and looked away. "We can still fight. There are certain things I miss though, like...," she paused hard, "I miss James," she whispered.

"You're delusional if you ever think I'm going to be him again," he hissed into her ear. She spun her head around and looked him dead in the eye, challenging him with her silence. She was content with that, the usual feisty spark that had been so lacking lately, replaced with a menacing one, recently developed. Her eyes slid to his lips and she knew she'd given away her tell.

Jim dipped his head down and gave her a kiss, forcing her to kiss him back with the same bruises power he'd forced down on her. She nibbled at his lip and when he opened his mouth she grabbed it and bit it, drawing blood and a gasp from her brother. He pulled back and touched it, a grin seeping onto his face.

"Why you litt-"

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important other than you snogging your sister," Came the drawl of a gravel voice from the door. Jim scowled and sat back down , turning his head to Sebastian, who had in his arms a bunch of flowers. Anthea looked at him and gave him a heartless smile.

"He's some sorry-I-shot-you-flowers," he said, setting them down on the desk, "Because I know Jim would never by them."

"Or apologize," Jim said stiffly, "Because I'm not sorry you got shot."

Anthea scowled and rolled her eyes at her brother, turning back to Sebastian at the door.

"I appreciate the gesture," she said fakely, sweetly. Sebastian rolled his eyes and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Whatever," he said coldly, trying to get back to the person he was. Anthea turned her gaze back to her brother, whose eyes where still full of glee from her biting kiss.

"Now that you're all here and reunited, can I please get some sleep?" she snapped at Jim, who chuckled at her.

"Oh of course, sister dear, here," he took the button from out her reach and started rapidly pressing it. She flailed for it for a moment but the drugs were quick and powerful and she began to feel heavy.

"Jim's here now, rest darling," was the last thing she heard and idly she wondered what the hell he was going to do next.

Mycroft was, for the most part, composed. Many years of training and polish had allowed him to keep his face neutral and composed, without an emotion to cross his features. Anthea's shooting shouldn't have bothered him quite as much as it did. He'd had assistants before (loads of them) that have taken the bullet for him. He hadn't been (in the slightest) moved by them one bit. But for a reason unknown to him, he felt just a little bit of panic when she first woke to see him. She made a weak attempt at a joke, and as she tried to laugh, she gasped in pain, the hands of the paramedic trying to stop the bleeding suddenly turning dark red and shiny as she spluttered back away from him. He stilled himself from reaching for her, but the paramedic had caught the movement from the corner of his eye. He eyed Mycroft, in his formal attire, before looking back at the woman on the bed, currently unconscious.

"Sir, what is your connection to her?"

"She's my wife," he lied quickly, knowing that she'd get instant treatment by the best if he swapped her last name. "Anthea Holmes."

The paramedic, unable to speak, just blinked. Mycroft had said it with such an air of importance that he had no response. So he whipped out his security clearance card and watched as the eyes of the paramedic widened to saucers.

"Yes, of course sir," he said stiffly, "I apologize Mr. Holmes."

What he was apologizing for, he couldn't tell, but it made him feel just a little bit better as they swiftly took her out of the ambulance, knowing that now they would do everything in their power to save her life. He knew how it worked sometimes (unimportant people on the brink of death) but he wasn't about to lose her, he couldn't lose her.

What was stranger enough, (other than giving her his last name for the hospital) was that he found himself liking the way it looked on paper. He found himself admiring the way his writing curved the 'a' at the end of her name into an H at the beginning of his last name finishing it with an embellished 's' as he pulled the pen from the paper. He liked the way to sounded "Mrs. Holmes" as it came from the doctors lips (and they weren't referring to mummy) and the way the band sat on her wrist, their names combined. He's never been one for sentimental things, but this, this was all new and so exciting.

When they took her from surgery he sat by her bed, seeing if she'd wake. He sat there, watching her sleep, reading the monitors for about three hours before his phone rang and he was back to the office. He found himself consumed the work she'd left behind, and hired instantly a temp to take her place. He locked himself away in the office for the days she was out, and at night, when he should be home sleeping he came to her bedside, silent and settled, sitting next to her while she slept. It was good, the doctors said, her sleeping constantly, that it mean her body was healing. But to him, he was a frazzled mess.

One night, while she slept he eyed her hand, resting near her leg. It was pale and taunt, the veins and bones showing through her pale skin. She looked cold, lifeless, nearly dead (and he's seen his fair share of deaths) and it frightened him, actually frightened him that she was almost dead. He'd never had that feeling before, a feeling of fear and certainly not over someone else's well being. A flaw, he called it, that he couldn't actually feel. Sherlock had it too. But sitting here, watching her sleep, he couldn't help but feel for her. He reached out carefully and touched her hand. She didn't flinch, didn't move away, and he clasped it between his tentatively, pulling it up to his lips. He let it linger there as he watched her sleep, breathing soft warm puffs onto her cold skin, his eyes calculating, balancing, thinking of all his emotions as they came and went, just sitting there. He decided, that when she awoke, he'd tell her, he would let her know exactly how he felt about her. And they should proceed that way.

Which was precisely what he did the next afternoon when he found her awake. There were flowers by the door, a gift from her brother (doubtful but only solution) and she was awake and aware, staring out the window. He knocked on the door frame and she turned to look at him, her eyes weary from all of the time she spent asleep, her body silently repairing itself. He cleared his throat and nodded at her.

"How are you feeling?" he asked casually. Anthea shrugged.

"Best I can at the moment sir," she said before frowning, "Don't you have a-"

"Cancelled," he said, waving his hand dismissively at the comment. He stepped more into the room, heading for the window.

"Oh," she said, turning her eyes back to her hands. She noticed the name on her wrist band and she opened her mouth to ask him but he seemed to beat her to it.

"There is something we need to discuss," he said, eyes looking out the window."

"Yes sir," she said, watching his back. She'd never seen him like this before, rigid and postured, all...conflicting. Her brow furrowed. "Are you all right?"

"No," he answered, coming to look back at her. His eyes were wide, full of emotion and Anthea could not let her gaze flutter away from his at that moment. He stepped closer to her and finally, in a rush of air, settled himself in the chair by her bed.

"It seems," he started, looking at her wrist where his name sat, "That I have developed...the most...inappropriate feelings for you, my dear. And, try as I might, I cannot quell them. I am so sorry, but I feel this is where I must...release you from your position."

Confused, Anthea blinked, once, twice, staring directly at him, trying to take in the information. He turned his eyes to his lap, trying to keep the straight face he had earlier.

"No."

Mycroft looked up. Anthea was frowning, almost an angry frown. Come to think of it, she did look rather angry. Mycroft, for the most part, was confused and quite unsure of what was going to happen next. It took him a moment to compose himself and speak again.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said no," she said, "I'm not going to quit."

"You don't understand," Mycroft said bitterly, "You've got no choice. I've fired you."

"Because you have a crush on me?"

"I do not have a crush on you Anthea," he sneered bitterly. He saw the hurt on her face and back tracked quickly. "It's much more than a crush. I think-" he paused, "I care for you Anthea, more than I should and it's not professional."

"So?" she said, looking at him with big eyes.

"What are you saying?"

"What if I were to tell you Mycroft," she started slowly, "That I too, have developed unprofessional emotions for you as well?"

Well, he certainly wasn't expecting that. He stared at her, a mixture of nerves and joy, unable to speak. Anthea stared back at him, eyes wide and a smile plastered on her lips.

"What does this mean?" he said, his fingers aching to touch her, to hold her face in his hands and kiss her but he refrained.

"That I'm not fired?" she said and then carefully added "And that perhaps, when I get out of here, we can go on a proper date to talk about...this?"

Mycroft smiled at her, a real smile and reached for her hand squeezing it. She grinned at him and then rested back, closing her eyes. Realizing that she needs sleep, he stood, squeezing her hand and leaning forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"Thank you my dear," he whispered. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, her hot breath caressing his face.

"Always," she answered, before closing her eyes and grinning to herself. Mycroft let go of her hand and left the room, passing the flowers her brother left her. He strode up to the nurses station and leered over the desk.

"I need all security footage from that room-" he pointed "Sent to my office. That includes past tape as well."

The nurse nodded and he left, satisfied. He was trying to process what good luck had just befallen him.

He had no idea what bad luck was just about to happen.


End file.
